The morning mist of the Forest of Gloom had not yet dispersed, but a seldom-used fork off the Khyprian road was already marked by deep ruts from wagon wheels.
Thirty wagons covered in coarse burlap struggled forward on the bumpy road, their wheels occasionally sinking into mud pits, causing the draft horses to let out a mournful "huff."
The reason this small path was deserted was precisely because the surface was littered with stones and standing water; even the woodcutters most familiar with the terrain refused to tread here—yet today, this special caravan had no choice but to detour through it.
The guards in the convoy held various stances, but all exuded a rugged toughness that warned outsiders to keep their distance.
Over a dozen mercenaries wore worn leather armor, sharp scimitars and crossbows hanging from their waists. Their shoulders swayed bonelessly as they walked, yet their eyes swept the surrounding woods like a hawk's.
Seven or eight broad-shouldered, barrel-bellied Ogres walked beside the wagons. They towered three or four heads taller than ordinary humans, their stomachs round like drums, protected only by a rusty iron plate welded to their bellies as makeshift armor. They clutched meteor hammers and long axes larger than a human head, and the ground trembled slightly with every step they took.
Most eye-catching were the nearly one hundred Lion Knights. They wore silver-white Lionheart armor, with a roaring lion's head engraved on the chest. They rode identical tall white horses, carrying knightly swords at their hips and longbows on their backs. Their formation was ruler-straight, completely out of place amid the surrounding chaos—this was a caravan from Prince Patton's Fiefdom, and one of the most influential powers among the border fiefdoms.
"Damn this road! It's harder to traverse than the mud outside Patton Castle!" Stuart pulled on his reins, watching a wagon wheel sink half a meter deep into the mud pit, and couldn't help but curse under his breath.
This middle-aged veteran knight was the caravan leader. His temples were touched by frost, his face bore a knife scar, and his Lionheart armor was splattered with mud, yet it still failed to obscure his tall, straight figure.
He paced back and forth on his horse, directing the mercenaries and Ogres to help push the wagons while complaining to his adjutant: "If I had known this road was so difficult, we should have waited a few more days and gone around through Katushir!"
The adjutant quickly nodded in agreement: "Sir, the main issue is that the Northern Border Alliance just issued an order prohibiting us from passing through Katushir, saying they fear we might be colluding with the greenskins ..."
"Colluding? What do those fools know!" Stuart yanked hard on the reins, causing his white horse to paw the ground restlessly. "We are going to trade with the dwarves of Gezhik, not drink with the greenskins ! When I return to Patton, I must report this to the Prince and have him deal with those Alliance members properly!"
Just as he was complaining, a hurried exclamation suddenly came from the front: "Sir! Something is ahead!"
Stuart's heart tightened, and he immediately spurred his horse toward the head of the column.
He saw the scouting knight pointing toward the woods ahead, his face pale.
Stuart looked in the direction he was pointing and instantly froze—through the sparse branches, a towering city wall abruptly appeared before his eyes!
He quickly dismounted, pulled a telescope from his breast pocket, and observed carefully.
Something was vaguely visible in the mist-shrouded forest: a city wall constructed of blue bricks and painted black. The wall surface was too smooth to be the work of greenskins ; the grayish-white mortar between the bricks held them firmly together, gleaming with a cold, hard light in the morning fog.
Stuart used a large tree in the forest as a reference point and roughly estimated the height—at least twenty-five meters! That was nearly five meters higher than the castle walls of Prince Patton's Fiefdom! Green shadows flickered vaguely across the top of the wall, moving extremely fast, as if someone were patrolling up there.
"This... was this built by greenskins ?" Stuart's voice was shaking slightly.
He had spent thirty years in the border fiefdoms and had seen countless greenskin tribes. Those creatures only knew how to build crude palisades out of logs and mud, or at most, stack a few crooked stone walls. How could they construct such a regular, towering city wall?
Yet, along the Khyprian road, aside from the Blackrock Clan entrenched there, no other force could possibly accomplish such a feat.
The caravan behind him also erupted into chatter.
The mercenaries stopped pushing the wagons and looked up, their faces full of shock; the Ogres scratched their round bellies and let out a "Gurgle" toward the wall, saying something unintelligible; the Lion Knights gripped the swords at their waists, their eyes vigilant—the greenskins' reputation was too foul, and no one knew if these creatures would suddenly rush out to steal their goods.
"Sir, what should we do?" The adjutant leaned closer, a hint of nervousness in his voice. "Should we send someone ahead to scout the situation?"
Stuart lowered the telescope, his brow deeply furrowed.
His mission was to deliver silk and spices from Prince Patton's Fiefdom to Gezhik, trading them for iron ore from the dwarves. If they clashed with the greenskins here, not only would the caravan suffer losses, but the transaction time would also be delayed.
Moreover, the wall looked exceptionally sturdy, and the number of green shadows on top was unknown. If a real fight broke out, they might not gain the advantage.
"We will pass quietly." Stuart pondered for a moment before making his decision. "Have everyone put away their weapons and refrain from speaking loudly. Follow me slowly. As long as we don't provoke them, the greenskins shouldn't attack proactively."
He swung onto his horse and led the way toward the wall. The caravan quickly followed. The mercenaries reluctantly sheathed their scimitars, the Ogres shouldered their meteor hammers, and the Lion Knights loosened their grip on their swords. The formation remained neat, but it lacked some of its previous killing intent.
The wagons moved slowly along the bumpy path, getting closer and closer to the wall.
Stuart could see the details of the wall more clearly—the bricks were uniformly colored, obviously fired with care; the top of the wall had crenellations, and the greenskin shadows moved back and forth between them, as fast as monkeys; occasionally, he could also spot several wooden watchtowers hidden at the corners of the wall, where greenskins seemed to be peering out.
His heart pounded, and his palms began to sweat.
Although he feigned composure, he felt uncertain—greenskins never played by the rules. Who knew if these creatures would suddenly loose arrows?
Fortunately, until the caravan had passed directly beneath the wall, the greenskins on top made no move.
The green shadows merely observed them from the crenellations, making no aggressive gestures.
Stuart sighed in relief and quickly urged the caravan to speed up, wanting to leave this troubled area as soon as possible.
When the caravan finally left the side path and stepped onto the main route of the Khyprian road, Stuart couldn't resist looking back.
That single glance made his heart leap again—he saw that more than half of the green shadows on the wall had vanished, leaving only a few scattered figures moving between the crenellations.
"Those shadows... they were archers!"
He realized instantly that at least half of the greenskins on the wall just now were archers. They must have been aiming at the caravan but held their fire because they hadn't received the command to attack.
This realization sent a chill down Stuart's spine.
He dared not look any longer, quickly spurred his horse to catch up with the caravan, with only one thought in mind: get off the Khyprian road quickly and away from this mysterious greenskin fortress.
Shortly after he left, on the city wall of the Blackrock Clan, Scarface waved his hand at the hobgoblin archers beside him.
The leader of the hobgoblin archers, missing two teeth and bearing a knife scar across his face, held a specially crafted longbow—the very one Kurzadh had specifically asked Guzhana to forge for him.
"Put down your bows! Retreat to the watchtower and rest!" Scarface's voice was shrill. "The boss said that as long as the caravan doesn't cause trouble, we shouldn't bother them. If they try to skip our toll, it won't be too late to shoot arrows then!"
Over fifty hobgoblin archers responded in unison, lowering their iron bows and climbing down the ladders from the top of the wall to enter the adjacent watchtower.
When the caravan passed by earlier, they had already drawn their bows taut, their arrows aimed at the wagons below. If Scarface had given the command, an arrow shower would have instantly engulfed the convoy.
But Kurzadh had already given instructions: for caravans passing normally, as long as they paid the toll, there was no need to attack, and they could even be secretly escorted—after all, caravans brought gold coins and trade opportunities, so there was no need to kill them all.
Scarface walked to the edge of the wall, leaned over the crenellation, and watched the fading figures of the caravan and the lion-head banner above them. He grinned, exposing his tooth less gums: "The caravan from Prince Patton's Fiefdom... next time they come, they'll have to pay double the toll!"
The wind on the wall carried the dampness of the forest, fluttering the battle banner of the Blackrock Clan.
Inside the watchtower, the hobgoblin archers had already begun sharing the roasted mushrooms they brought, with occasional bursts of laughter; below the wall, the hobgoblin laborers were still busy repairing the road, filling the potholes with gravel; the clang of hammering drifted from the distant Blacksmith Shop, where Guzhana must be forging new weapons for the orc nob again.